"Could we get some hay from the barn?" I wondered; "there won't be any tramps in there now, will there?"
"I guess not. We needn't go all the way in,—we can reach some by just openin' the door."
He was on the point of rising when another objection occurred to me.
"Maybe Mr. Brown wouldn't like it."
"He hasn't any right to say anything 'bout it. In time of war they take what they want, don't they? They make a forced levi."
This subject of the forced "levi" had been discussed amongst us at some length in connection with Mr. Hawkins' cherries. Jimmy Toppan and Rob Currier had the impression that it had something to do with a clothing dealer on Main Street.
"Anyway," Ed remarked, "we can put the hay back in the morning."
This seemed to be a reasonable solution in order to keep our career as outlaws on a moral basis. So we arose and started cautiously for the barn. Before we had taken five steps in that direction, a voice spoke. It was a deep, resonant voice, charged with authority and menace. The word or phrase that it uttered was not, it seemed to us, especially relevant, but there could be no mistaking the import of its accent and tone. It came from the earth, from the sky, from nowhere in particular and from everywhere in general.
It said: "Ker-r-rum!"